A Rural Affair

for lunch in London, a business lunch, to discuss their finances, in her power suit and heels.

‘You remember Emma?’ he’d have said, with no awkwardness. Phil didn’t do awkward; he had a towering sense of his own self-importance. His own entitlement. And Emma, with a bunch of flowers perhaps, would execute her practised, anxious smile.

‘Hello. How lovely to see you again. What a pretty house.’

Later, after coffee, Phil would confide in his mother, whilst Cecilia and Emma took a walk in the garden. This girl had brought some much-needed sunshine into his life. Much comfort. He’d never leave me, of course, never. He knew where his duty lay. But this was the real thing. True love. And Marjorie would nod, touch his hand. Her poor boy. Trapped in a loveless marriage. Of course, she’d always known it was a mistake. That dreadful father. She’d shudder. Whisky on his breath. That house, which she’d heard about from Phil. A slum, almost. Oh no, she wouldn’t condemn Phil. Instead, she’d say later to her daughter: poor boy, he deserves some happiness, and how like him to insist he can’t leave Poppy and the children. So little happened in Marjorie and Cecilia’s lives, I could see them thoroughly enjoying the subterfuge. Knowing something I didn’t; having a secret. It would exact a certain kind of revenge, which, let’s face it, was always best eaten cold. And they wanted revenge. They’d felt so robbed, you see, when we hadn’t gone to Kent to live, but had settled near my father instead. My friends. Their fury at the time had been unnerving.

‘But we assumed!’ Marjorie had spat at me in her immaculate kitchen, tight-lipped, spectacles glinting. ‘Cecilia and I had always assumed that you’d come here, to Ashford. That you’d stay near the village!’

And look after us, was what they meant.

But I’d put my foot down. And at the time I’d thought it the greatest expression of my fiance’s love for me. The greatest capitulation, probably. One he’d immediately regretted.

‘Jesus,’ I muttered, only half to myself.

‘It certainly is a very unusual situation, I must say,’ Sam said uncomfortably.

I glanced up. Yes, of course it was. And as suddenly as the door to my fury had flown open, it slammed shut and another door gaped. Embarrassment. In it roared. This man, this lawyer, Sam Hetherington, didn’t know me. Not really. He didn’t know Marjorie or Cecilia, either. They could be quite delightful. They certainly had delightfully old-fashioned-sounding names. They could be sweet, gentle souls, sending anxious letters from Rose Cottage, the house on the letterhead. And I could be simply ghastly. With my powdered face and laddered tights. My overdone scent. My flirtatious manner. It seemed to me yet another door closed too. Softly, but firmly. Eyes glittering, I turned and stared out of the window at the day. It was still warm and clement, lovely for October, but the breeze through the open window seemed languid and heavy, whereas this morning it had been sweet with possibility.

‘And I’m afraid mother and daughter are also intending to make a claim. Join the ugly rush.’

I turned back to him. Nothing surprised me now. ‘Oh? On what basis?’ My voice came from elsewhere, detached.

‘On the basis that apparently your husband said he would provide for them in their dotage.’

‘They’re not in their dotage.’

‘No, but neither of them works, living as they do off your late father-in-law’s pension. But it wasn’t index-linked and is running out. Your husband knew that, and to that end intended to make a will which would be inclusive of them. That was why he’d gathered so much life insurance before he was killed.’

I regarded him steadily for a moment. This rang true. The only thing so far. Phil had gathered an unusual amount of life insurance. For a reason. I cleared my throat. ‘Do they have a case?’

‘In my opinion, no. You, as the wife and mother of his children, have rightly inherited his sole estate, as, I might add, most wives do.’

‘But they’ll fight it? I mean, if I refuse?’

‘Oh, they’ll fight it.’

‘Then we’ll fight back.’ Yesterday I’d have willingly given them some. But not now. Not when they’d so publicly humiliated me. ‘Write back and tell them so immediately. Tell them I won’t part with a penny.’

He made a quiescent face. ‘Could do, but that’s a fairly aggressive step. And you want to avoid slugging it out, particularly in court, which is heinously expensive. Although it might, eventually, be inevitable.’

Court. A vision of me trembling in the dock of an oak-panelled Old Bailey sprang to mind. Twelve stony-faced men and women staring accusingly at me. Cecilia and Marjorie in the gallery, weirdly wearing the hats they’d worn at my wedding, complete with quivering bird on Marjorie’s, except it was no longer a peacock, but a bird of prey. Their barrister, a hatchet-faced man, was cross-examining me: ‘Were you a good wife, Mrs Shilling? Were you?’